Drugs, drugs everywhere
by Chairman-Meowith
Summary: My version of what happened when Adler drugged Sherlock. I thought it was unrealistic that he was just a little confused and sleepy without any other real side effects so I've had this plot bunny for a while. So Watson has to figure out what's wrong with Sherlock. Major Sherlock whump. Rated K for needles and vomiting and other nasty stuff. Spoilers for a scandal in Belgravia obvs


**AN: I wrote this while re-watching "A Scandal in Belgravia" with my mother... Sorry for any inconsistencies or repetition of what legitimately occurred. I don't _think_ there are any, but I could be wrong. It's happened once or twice in the past. I grew up with Sherlock and Watson not Sherlock and John so that's why I repeatedly call John by his last name. Sorry it's just more natural to me. As always reviews are appreciated! And also as always enjoy! or at least I hope so...**

Sherlock stumbled out of bed cradling his head. It was pounding fiercely and he desperately hoped he wasn't about to be sick. The drug, whatever The Woman had given him, was wreaking havoc on his system. After Watson had finished harassing him, he had checked his coat and gone back to bed. He was still for a moment as the room continued to spin crazily around him.

"John," he muttered, "John!" Watson appeared a short moment later.

"What is it Sherlock? Hang on, why are you out of bed?"

"I... I... Need to go somewhere... Find Adler." John shook his head.

"We've been over this, she's gone, now get back in bed." Sherlock merely dropped to his knees and groaned quietly. His normally beautiful hair was plastered to his head with sweat.

"It looks like you're getting worse, not better. I'll be right back. Try not to move." Sherlock was unaware of his friend's retreating footsteps, his face was screwed up in pain. His stomach rolled and he grabbed the wastebasket. Sherlock's stomach surged once more and he retched again and again into the bucket. His throat stung when only liquid emerged. He hadn't eaten in several days. John re-entered the room and moved to Sherlock's side. He was slumped over and curled into a protective ball. His whole body ached. John held the cool cloth he had gone to get over Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock made a low growling noise in the back of his throat.

"What do you want. Enough please, I'll tell you whatever you want to know." Watson wrinkled his face up.

"Sherlock you're not making sense. I'm trying to help. Tell me what's wrong." He said firmly.

"I'll tell you anything, just make it stop."

"Alright Sherlock it looks like this drug is having some sort of adverse reaction with your system. I can't give you anything for it because that might make it worse, but let's get you into bed, yeah?" John grabbed Sherlock under the arms for the second time that day and hoisted him back onto the bed. He retrieved the cloth and placed it over the whole upper half of Sherlock's face. Sherlock moaned and rolled completely over.

"Sherlock, do you know what she gave you?" Asked Watson impatiently, yet not expecting a reply.

"What are you doing here John? I want to sleep." John looked down at the man with concern.

"Sherlock I've been here for awhile. You've been ill. Tell me what hurts."

"Everything, now go away I'm tired." He groused.

"I'm trying to _help_ Sherlock you've got to be more specific." John was getting irritated now.

"I don't need your help. I don't need anyone's help, now leave." John sighed.

"Alright Sherlock I'll be in the next room if you need me."

"Why would I need you?" John paused for a moment.

"Sherlock you've said that before."

"What do you mean? Of course I haven't."

"You did, though. The first time I came in here." Sherlock smashed his face into the pillow.

"Just go." John was more than a little bit concerned now. Sherlock hadn't remembered the trip back to 221b, but he had just assumed that was a normal side effect. This was different though, this was weird. John decided that he wasn't going anywhere. He would look after Sherlock until he was better and if he still wanted him to leave then he would.

"I'm not leaving Sherlock there's something really wrong here. I'll be quiet. Go back to sleep."

"I can't you're breathing to loudly." John rolled his eyes, but remained quiet. Sherlock's breathing eventually slowed, but didn't deepen. If he were asleep, John reasoned, his breathing would be deep, not shallow. Sherlock continued to breathe like this for several moments. John leaned over and put his ear over Sherlock's mouth. His breathing was slow and shallow and John wasn't sure what he could do. He knew what the treatment was, but he didn't know where to get the drug. Naloxone wasn't particularly easy to find. Watson rubbed his hands through his hair.

"I can't... breathe... John..." Sherlock's voice startled Watson. Apparently he was conscious.

"I know Sherlock. I know, but I don't know where to get the drug." John was beginning to panic.

"Naloxone's in... the cabinet... above the sink... In the... wall."

"What do you mean in the wall?" John shouted.

"False... Wall..." Well that would explain where Sherlock had been keeping his drugs then. John tore out of the room and ripped open the aforementioned cupboard. He punched through the false wall and pulled it out.

"Jesus fucking Christ Sherlock." He muttered. John pawed through the massive store of drugs until he found the naloxone. He walked briskly back to the bedroom as he prepared the injection. He knelt beside Sherlock's bed and grabbed his wrist. "Where the Hell am I putting this?" He shouted at his barely conscious friend.

"Hip..." He gasped, "Use the hip." John had almost forgotten himself. The hip would be good for a simple intramuscular injection. What use was all his medical training if he forgot it all in an emergency? He slid Sherlock's suit down to expose his boney hip and jammed the syringe in. Sherlock grunted, but remained still as John pulled the needle out. Sherlock began to gulp in air and John helped him sit up.

"Much better, thank you Doctor Watson." He said with the tiniest hint of a smile. "Now go get me flumazenil. She's overdosed me on benzodiazepine. Please hurry John, the other side-effects include seizures and I'd rather not have one of those." John's eyes widened as he left to get the next drug. He returned, syringe at the ready a moment later. Flumazenil was a fairly standard procedure and one that as an army doctor John knew well. Overdoses on Morphine were not altogether uncommon and the treatment was the same. He tilted Sherlock's neck and inserted the syringe more gently this time.

Sherlock gasped as the burning liquid began to spread.

"Sorry Sherlock, I know that doesn't feel good." John gently pushed Sherlock back against his pillows. "Just relax." Sherlock's eyes closed and he slept peacefully.

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About ten minutes later Sherlock shot up, gasping. He was dimly aware that John was sitting on his bed with him and that he was drenched in sweat. He jumped out of bed and promptly collapsed. He could sort of hear John asking him something, but he didn't care. He couldn't breathe, couldn't speak and he was shaking uncontrollably. He was choking and tears were streaming down his face. He smothered a scream and a primal noise burst from his throat. He became aware that Watson was holding him tightly and murmuring into his ear.

"It's a panic attack Sherlock, relax. It's one of the side-effects of the flumazenil. You need to calm down now. Deep breaths Sherlock, deep breaths." Sherlock held onto the sound of John's voice until he had calmed. John led him back to the bed and made him sit. "Put your head down Sherlock, it's alright." He wiped his face on his sleeve and looked up at John.

"What was that?" He croaked.

"Side effects from the drug I just gave you, panic attack. Also you're probably about to be sick." He thrust the wastebasket into Sherlock's hands.

"Really..." He mused. "I've never had that react-" He broke off suddenly and vomited into the basket again. John handed him the cloth and removed the bucket. Sherlock wiped the sweat and sick off his face and tossed the cloth into the trash as well.

"How did you know?" Asked John hesitantly.

"I assume you mean about the benzodiazepine. I should think it was obvious. Really John, how does it feel to be so absolutely clueless to the world around you?" Watson ignored this and waited for Sherlock to continue. "It was the combination of hallucinations, nausea, short term amnesia, and respiratory depression. You're a doctor, John. I would think that would have been the first thing to occur to you." John glared at Sherlock. "Thank you though." His tone was subdued and he wasn't looking at John. "I might have died on my own, so thank you." John stared at Sherlock, he never apologized, never begged, and rarely ever thanked anyone. He had done two of those in one day. Watson was momentarily floored.

"Well you're welcome. Holler if you need anything." He left quietly.

"I won't need anything." Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"I've heard that before." John replied, through the door.


End file.
